Sunday morning arrived with a clear sky and a cold breeze.
I finished my hospital laundry the night before and set out my clothes before going to bed.
I wanted to be on time.
Opal had not told me why she wanted to see the house, and I did not want to arrive late and give her another reason to question my judgment.
I made breakfast, washed the dishes, and checked the car.
Then I drove to church.
The service was nearly over when I arrived.
I sat toward the back and waited.
I tried to listen to the sermon, but my mind kept returning to the Miller property.
I wondered whether Opal had already spoken to Nate's father.
I wondered whether she had told Judy what she had found in the newspaper.
I wondered whether she would ask why we had never mentioned the purchase.
When the service ended, people began moving toward the doors.
I waited outside.
A few minutes later, Opal appeared with her coat buttoned to the neck and her handbag tucked beneath one arm.
She walked slowly, but she did not need help.
At eighty-eight, she still carried herself with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where she was going.
When she saw me, she nodded.
"You're here."
"I said I would be."
"Good."
She opened the passenger door and settled into the seat.
I waited until she had arranged her handbag before closing the door.
Then I walked around to the driver's side.
"Where would you like to go first?" I asked.
"Your house."
She said it as if there could be no other answer.
I started the car.
For the first few minutes, she watched the road.
I drove past the familiar fields and turned onto the rural road leading toward the Miller property.
The farther we went, the quieter the surroundings became.
Opal did not ask about my job.
She did not ask about the weather.
She sat with her hands folded over her handbag, looking out at the passing fences.
I wondered how much she knew.
I wondered what she had decided about us before she ever made the call.
I kept my eyes on the road.
After a while, she spoke.
"How long have you been working on the place?"
"Since we bought it."
"That doesn't tell me much."
I glanced at her.
"We started cleaning it the next day. We've been going whenever we can."
"Both of you?"
"Yes."
She nodded.
"And you're still working at the hospital?"
"Yes. I still take shifts at the truck stop, too."
She turned toward me.
"Even now?"
"We need the money for repairs."
She looked back through the windshield.
"I see."
I waited for another question.
None came.
The road curved around a field, and the house appeared in the distance.
The porch was still unfinished, but it looked stronger than it had when we bought the property.
The yard had been cleared along the front.
The windows looked cleaner.
I slowed the car as we approached.
Opal leaned forward slightly.
"So that's it."
"Yes."
I parked near the front of the house.
She remained in her seat for a moment, studying the building.
I could almost hear her making her own list of repairs.
Then she opened the door.
I hurried around to help her, but she waved me away.
"I can manage."
I stepped back.
She climbed out carefully and stood beside the car.
The breeze moved the edge of her coat.
She looked at the porch, then at the windows.
Finally, she turned toward me.
"Show me what you've done."
I took the keys from my pocket.
The old lock resisted at first.
I adjusted the key and turned it slowly.
The door opened.
Opal stepped inside.
I watched her face as she looked around the front room.
The walls were clean.
The old wallpaper was gone.
The floor had been repaired in the places we could afford to fix.
Sunlight came through the window and fell across the room.
She walked farther inside, taking her time.
I followed her.
She looked at the walls.
Then she looked at the doorway where Nate had repaired the trim.
"Who did this work?"
"Nate did most of it. We paid for the electrical work that needed a professional."
She nodded.
"That was sensible."
I felt a small rush of relief.
I had been waiting for criticism.
Instead, she was examining the work as if she wanted to understand what we had done.
She moved toward the kitchen.
I followed and pointed out the cabinets we had cleaned and the repairs we still needed to make.
The room was far from finished.
The counter had scratches.
One cabinet door still hung slightly crooked.
The sink needed more work than we had expected.
Opal studied it all.
"How much did you pay for the property?"
I told her.
She looked at me.
"And you had the money?"
"We had saved for a long time."
"How long?"
"Two years, mostly."
She was quiet.
I wondered whether I should tell her about the extra shifts and the fishing boat.
But she had not asked.
So I waited.
She walked back toward the front room.
Then she sat down carefully on a chair we had brought over for working days.
I remained standing.
She looked up at me.
"Why didn't you tell the family?"
The question came so directly that I had no time to prepare an answer.
I looked toward the window.
"We wanted to be sure we could do it."
"That isn't quite an answer."
I sat on the edge of a nearby box.
"We didn't want people to think we were asking for help."
Opal watched me.
"Did you ask anyone for money?"
"No."
"Did you borrow from Ronald?"
"No."
"Did you borrow from your parents?"
"No."
She nodded once.
"Then what were you afraid of?"
I looked down at my hands.
I could have given her a simple answer.
I could have said we were private people.
I could have said the house was not ready for visitors.
Both things were true.
Neither was the whole truth.
"I didn't want anyone to think we were trying to prove something," I said.
Opal waited.
I took a breath.
"And I didn't want to explain why we needed to do everything ourselves."
She did not interrupt.
I looked at the clean walls.
I thought about Easter dinner.
The envelopes beneath the plates.
The checks.
The bluebird card.
The way I had smiled and thanked Judy because I could not bring myself to ask why we had been treated differently.
I had carried that memory into every long shift and every repair.
I had told myself it did not matter.
But it had mattered.
"I think we were embarrassed," I admitted.
Opal's expression softened slightly.
"Embarrassed about what?"
"That we couldn't afford a house without working so hard for it."
She leaned back.
"There's no shame in working."
"I know."
"Do you?"
I looked at her.
She did not sound unkind.
She sounded serious.
I thought about the fishing boat.
The envelopes of tips.
The nights when I had come home too tired to speak.
I thought about Nate sitting at the kitchen table, writing down every expense.
"Yes," I said. "I do now."
Opal looked around the room again.
She studied the walls, the floor, and the doorway.
Then she turned back to me.
"I read the notice in the paper."
I nodded.
"I thought you might have."
"I wanted to see the place for myself."
I waited.
She placed both hands on the arms of the chair and stood.
"Well," she said, "you've certainly given yourselves work."
I laughed softly.
"That's one way to put it."
She smiled.
For the first time since she had arrived, the room felt less tense.
I offered to show her the rest of the house.
She accepted.
We walked slowly through the rooms, and I explained what we had repaired and what remained unfinished.
She asked practical questions.
I answered as honestly as I could.
When we reached the back room, she examined the wall where the old paper still remained.
"That looks like a miserable job."
"It is."
She laughed.
"Then don't do it all in one day."
I thought of my cracked thumbs and the bandages I had worn while stripping the walls.
"I learned that lesson."
She looked at me for a moment.
Then she nodded toward the kitchen.
"Have you got anything to drink?"
"I can make coffee."
"That would be fine."
I went to the kitchen and filled a kettle.
The cupboards were not yet arranged, and I had to move a box of tools to reach the cups.
Opal watched me from the doorway.
I set two cups on the counter.
The house was still rough.
The porch still needed work.
There were unfinished rooms and bills waiting to be paid.
But Opal was sitting in our kitchen, drinking coffee in the place Nate and I had bought with our own savings.
For the first time, I did not feel the need to apologize for what was missing.
We had not finished everything.
We had not pretended to.
We had simply begun.
And Opal had come to see it.
Click here to continue reading: PART 9: Opal Finished Her Coffee, Looked Around the House We Had Built With Our Own Savings, and Asked Me a Question I Wasn’t Ready to Answer
Three Envelopes Held Twenty Thousand Dollars Each, While the Card Beneath My Plate Told Me Everything About My Place in the Family
Part 8 of 13
